


Never Go Out (Of Style)

by FreshBrains



Category: Selena Gomez (Musician), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Bisexual Female Character, Community: femslashex, F/F, First Meetings, Flirting, Morning After, POV Selena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: There’s a new girl at the bar.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nerissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerissa/gifts).



> What an amazing prompt you've provided, Nerissa! I was so excited to write a historical/period fic for these two, and no matter what I tried, a super dated/awkward/goofy early 1990's setting was just calling to me. I feel like so much of the current style these days is calling back to, like, 1992, and I wanted to put these two very modern singers into that time period. I hope it works for you, and I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> Minor mentions of real-life possible self-harm (very minor) and a past Selena/Justin romance.
> 
> Beta-read by a dear RL friend who does not mind my adoration for cheap 90's alcohol and #1 hits.

“I’m getting a little sick of that thing,” Selena says, pushing a rag rhythmically down the mahogany length of the bar.

Demi pauses as she counts out her till, the straw from her half-finished Jack and Coke still poking out from between her lips. “What thing?”

Selena nods up towards the front window. Every night since she bought the bar, the purple neon sign above the door was turned on at three in the afternoon and shut off at three in the morning like clockwork. It was a comforting little ritual, something to mark Selena’s time like the jingle of her keys or the sound of quarters clicking into the jukebox, but it was also the very bane of her existence.

“Our name,” she says with a sigh. The neon light, scrawling the name The Place, glint off the bar’s wet surface in slippery purple splashes until she scrubs the wood dry. “It’s not really true anymore, is it?”

“Don’t get all heavy on me now, babe,” Demi says, shutting the till with a bang.

*

There’s a new girl at the bar.

“Maybe she’s one of those Olympic girls,” Demi says dreamily. “Figure skater, I bet. All dolled up in fur and silk.”

“Too tall,” Selena says absently. Besides, she and Demi watched every second of that year’s Olympic Games, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sophisticated French girls between ski jumps and bobsleighs.

“A ballerina, then,” Demi says, propping her elbows up on the bar. Their eyes follow the new girl as she walks across the barroom floor towards the ancient jukebox. “I could see her in a tutu. Maybe a bun in her hair.” The first notes of “Achy Breaky Heart” fill the room, and most of the patrons groan. The new girl just saunters back to her stool like she’s invincible.

“Hush,” Selena says, but feels her cheeks burn just thinking of it. The thing is, they’re just not used to new people at The Place. For starters, Selena is younger than most of the patrons at a fresh-faced twenty-four, and with her round cheeks and dark bobbed hair pulled back with a butterfly barrette, she’s not exactly a poster girl for lesbian nightlife in general. She owns The Place because nobody else wanted it, and now she spends her nights chatting with the regulars and drying glasses, the TV set above the bar playing _A Different World_ in syndication.

This new girl is obviously not the type to stay home on a Friday night. She’s blonde and statuesque, but not like a supermodel—she’s coltish and young, with a shy little smile she spares for no one. While most of the other women in the bar favor flannels and jeans, this girl wears the tiniest black velvet dress in existence, her hair tugged back in a spunky little braid.

“Oh, honey, you’re _so_ gone,” Demi says, smiling that lop-toothed grin of hers. She’s by far the most popular bartender of the small pool with her purple hair and colorful, Merry-Go-Round wardrobe, but she’s also a dependable employee and a good friend. She wears her past struggles on her sleeve, meshed with a clatter of silver charm bracelets, and isn’t afraid to confront her demons.

Selena could learn a thing or two from her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Selena says, pouring a beer for one of their regulars down the bar. “She’s cute. I’m not allowed to think so?”

“You’re _allowed_ , but I know for a fact that you haven’t had a date since 1991.”

Selena wants to give Demi the middle finger but supposes that wouldn’t be very nice. “I’ve had dates. Remember Justin?”

Demi sticks her finger in her mouth, pretending to gag. “As if he counts. Breaking up with you because he wants to be the next Vanilla Ice is _not_ what I’d call a romantic encounter.”

“Hardly a breakup,” Selena grumbles. “We barely even dated.” Justin was her last foray into dating men, and though she was bisexual and proud, she tended to prefer the dating styles (and eventual break-up styles) of women. Men tended to see Selena as weak and flaky once they learned about her childhood, but women tried to _save_ her from it, like they knew how hard it was to be in the spotlight during the most awkward years of your life.

She knows one isn’t much better than the other, but with women, there was that softness she needed and craved.

“I’ll serve her,” Demi says, whipping a rag at Selena’s butt, making the other girl yelp. “Then you can work your magic.”

*

Her name is Taylor. She’s only two years older than Selena, she carries a purse the color of cherry candy, and she wants to be a pop singer.

“Like Shania Twain,” Taylor says, spinning a little on her bar stool.

“Who?”

“She’s a crossover star,” Taylor says. “From Canada. She’s sort of country, but mostly pop. She’ll make it big, I promise.”

“Country, huh? You don’t seem like much of a country girl.” Selena, born and raised in Texas, could spot a prairie rose from a mile away, and Taylor wasn’t giving off that vibe. She had too much of a city swagger about her, an elegance that didn’t come from barns and fields. But at the same time, she seemed _free_ —free enough to walk into an unfamiliar lesbian bar and turn every head in the place.

“We all have our roots,” Taylor says breezily, giving nothing away. She then leans in a little, enough to create a tantalizing dip in the neck of her top, enough for Selena to see the classic blue of her eyes. “I have a confession,” she says, finger tracing a line up her glass of cranberry juice and cinnamon Aftershock.

Selena leans in close, so their faces are only inches apart. Taylor smells like Red Hots and Tabu. It’s nearing half past one in the morning and most of the regulars have filtered out, leaving tips and crumpled napkins on the bar, notes for Selena and even a few phone numbers if she needed company that night. She’s ready to focus all her attention on Taylor Swift. “And what’s that?”

Taylor grins. “I’ve never seen your show.”

Selena stands back up, spine suddenly stiff, and tries to will away the cold thread of disappointment trickling down her spine. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”

Instead of pulling back, Taylor just shrugs, still smiling. “I hope not. Just a fact. Besides, that was a way to let you know that I don’t care about your past, and I still plan to take you home and fuck you until you’re sore tonight.”

Normally, those words would send Selena into a tailspin of lust mixed with self-doubt, but now, she just wants to hide behind the bar. She’s sick of being _seen_ , seen in the wrong ways, seen as the little girl who played a spunky witch on a failing Disney children’s program. “Well, I’d rather not talk about that.”

Taylor raises an eyebrow. “The past part? Or the fucking part?”

“The former,” Selena says, realizing that opens the latter up for discussion. She braces her hands on the bar’s surface, sighing deeply.

“You look pretty like this,” Taylor says. “With all those colorful bottles behind you.” She nods to the array of vodkas in a row above Selena’s head. “Come home with me tonight.”

“Are you going to sing the _Wizards of Waverly Place_ theme song?” She can’t seem to go a week without hearing that damn jingle, either from a new patron at the bar or even a random person on the street, and all it does is bring up images of hair scrunchies and skateboarding montages and awful practical effects.

(If morality clauses and crash diets and fading fan popularity creep up along there as well, she won’t admit it).

“Honey,” Taylor says, and her voice is just nice enough to make it sound dry and sexy rather than patronizing, “I _told_ you I’ve never seen the show.”

Selena glances down the bar where Demi is chatting up a regular, and Demi gives her a nod and a thumbs up under the bar, telling Selena she’ll clean and close up. That’s enough for Selena. “Where do you live?”

“Red Bank,” Taylor says, like she knew Selena would be a sure thing. “I hope you don’t mind cats, baby girl.”

*

“Do you want to hang out today?” Taylor’s voice is soft velvet in the dark, the sounds of the apartment humming around them like snow. Her hand rests on Selena’s back, warm but still a bit tentative. It’ll be morning in an hour, but for now, they’re settled in the sweet black of a summer night.

Selena turns her head, hair mussed in the pillow. “Absolutely. I have to work tonight, but you’re mine today.” She flushes, hoping she sounds flirty rather than wack-o. After two orgasms and a smattering of love bites on Taylor’s throat, she’s find a modicum of confidence she can work with.

At this, Taylor bites her lip like she’s hiding a smile. “You’re a really nice person, Selena Gomez. Not sweet-nice, but _real_ nice.” Her apartment matches her personality—it’s all softness mixed with bold edges, clashing colors and paintings, photographs, hundreds of records and cassettes strewn on every surface, a guitar propped in the corner.

“Because I want to spend my day with a beautiful girl? I’d be a bonehead not to.” Selena can’t help but lean in for a kiss. Taylor looks suddenly small on her side of the bed, like she’s waiting for the boot, and for the first time in a long time, Selena wants to comfort rather than be comforted.

Taylor gasps into the kiss, hands threading in Selena’s hair, elbow knocking into the phone on the night table. It falls into the floor with a clatter, but neither woman can care with hands roaming and lips seeking skin. “I haven’t spent the day with a date in a long time,” Taylor admits, words murmured into Selena’s neck.

“I’m not your average date,” Selena says. “Let me show you around. Let me get to know you.”

“Only if I can know _you_ ,” Taylor says.

Selena nods, kissing Taylor on the forehead—an oddly tender gesture. “It’s a date,” she says, and things finally fall into place.


End file.
